bers. There is nothing new in all this; it has been said over and over again. But it is something to get a conspectus of the whole case. It is something to argue it, not upon single casualties, but upon full returns spread over a series of years, and embracing the whole railway system of the United Kingdom. And it is something to have all these facts produced in an au

not prevented is owing to mismanagement-that is, to parsimony, and to the starving system adopted by the Companies. Confront this fact with the other fact that the working expenses of railways have been diminished, are annually diminishing, and that it is the avowed policy of all directors to diminish them still more. And now, pondering over these two great

POE

TRY

Then suddenly when all was dark and rest,

As from some potent magian's sovereign spells,
Or some awakened deity's behest,
Blue summer lightning crossed the sapphire sea,
Flaming above the hills along the lea,

Flaming amid the lonely forest wells,
And through the casement like a marble tomb,
Where, silent in the deepening azure gloom,

Sad victim of inexorate destiny,

Pale as the dead flowers round her, lies Eurydice.

OVER HER TOMB.

The morn is breaking faint and cold
Along the world with sullen glare;
The moon, like the face of Aquarius old,
Looks through the piteous winter air;
The peasant guides his oxened plow
Amid the shadowed stretch of lawn,
And his far voice sounds upward now
Under the dark and solemn dawn.

Oft have we watched the setting moon,
And often viewed the morning waken,
Nor thought the spirit of our clime,
Relentless god, could mark the time

When, oh! too bitter and too soon,
Thy heart is cold, and mine is breaking.

The sea-birds wheel through misty beams,
The weary sea wakes round the shore,
Like one who dreamed eternal dreams,
Nor thought that he would waken more;
The lean woods shake in upper air,
And lapse in sorrow gray and still,
And sounds amid the bickering glare
The roar of wind beyond the hill:
Thus sing I thee the morning's birth,
Lost spirit, even as thou couldst hear me-
Oh, would this day of life were past,
Oh, would that I might rest at last,

And leave all sense above the earth,
Save the dumb joy that thou wert near me.

TASSO AT FERRARA.

"VEGGIO, quando tal vista Amor m'impetra."
POET child of poet father,

What thy theme for princely ears-
Thou, about whose temples gather
Laurels riper than thy years?
Dost recall the proud memento
Of thy birthplace by the sea,
Where, in heaven-blest Sorrento,
Life is immortality?

Exile son of sire in exile,

Sundered from a mother's love;
In thy years most soft and flexile,
Sentenced through the world to rove;
Dost thou in Ferrara's palace
Dream of having gained a home,
Where, unchafed by plot and malice,
Thou mayest now forget to roam?

All encharmed with joys too pleasant,
Threading mazy canzonet,
Dost thou, dallying with the present,
Nor look forward, nor regret?
Dost thou, priest of love and beauty,
For that Leonore is fair,
Fail to pay a client's duty,
And too boldly, grandly dare?

Dost thou with Rinaldo's story
Fix thy royal lady's eye;
Fire it with great Godfrey's glory;
Dim it when Clorind must die?

Ah! divert thy wild ambition,
Clog not thus thy poet-fame;
Works of splendid erudition

Yet should illustrate thy name !

Would that Fate, in mercy slighting
Her own laws, would bid thee look
Past the princess, at the writing
On the wall behind the duke!
We, alas! with awe and pity
Read the ban in dungeon slime:

"He who frees the Holy City

Shall in chains exhaust his prime,

"Shall long years in durance languish,
Half his life shall vex for nought;
Though his will rebuke his anguish
In the hell of baffled thought.
Freedom gained shall see but little

BY GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D.D. AWAY from thee! the morning breaks, But morning brings no joy to me; Alas! my spirit only wakes

To know that I am far from thee. In dreams I saw thy blessed face, And thou wert nestled on my breast; In dreams I felt thy fond embrace, And to mine own thy heart was pressed.

Afar from thee! 'tis solitude

Though smiling crowds around me be-
The kind, the beautiful, the good-
For I can only think of thee;
Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best,
My earliest, and my only one;
Without thee I am all unblest,
And wholly blest with thee alone.

Afar from thee! the words of praise
My listless ear unheeded greet;
What sweetness seemed in better days,
Without thee seems no longer sweet.
The dearest joy fame can bestow

Is in thy moistened eye to see,
And in thy cheeks' unusual glow,
Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee.

Afar from thee! the night is come,
But slumbers from my pillow flee;
Oh! who can rest so far from home?
And my heart's home is, love, with thee.
I kneel me down in silent prayer,
And then I know that thou art nigh;
For God, who seest every where,
Bends on us both his watchful eye.

Together in his loved embrace,

No distance can our hearts divide:
Forgotten quite the mediate space,

I kneel thy kneeling form beside.
My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep,
But soars the spirit far and free;
Oh! welcome be night's slumbers deep,
For then, sweet love, I am with thee.

WE TWO.

BY CLARENCE BUTLER.

WE Own no houses, no lots, no lands,
No dainty viands for us are spread,
By sweat of our brows and toil of our hands
We earn the pittance that buys our bread.

And yet we live in a grander state,
Sunbeam and I, than the millionaires
Who dine off silver and golden plate,
With liveried lacqueys behind the chairs.

We have no riches in houses and stocks,
No bank-books show our balance to draw,
Yet we carry a safe-key that unlocks
More treasure than Crœsus ever saw.
We wear no velvet nor satin fine,
We dress in a very homely way,
But ah! what luminous lusters shine
About Sunbeam's gowns and my hodden gray!

When we walk together (we do not ride,
We are far too poor) it is very rare
We are bowed unto from the other side
Of the street-but for this we do not care;
We are not lonely, we pass along,

Sunbeam and I, and you can not see,
We can, what tall and beautiful throngs
Of angels we have for company.

No harp, no dulcimer, no guitar,

Breaks into music at Sunbeam's touch,
But do not think that our evenings are
Without their music; there is none such
In the concert halls, where the palpitant air
In musical billows floats and swims;
Our lives are as psalms, and our foreheads wear
A calm, like the peal of beautiful hymns.

When cloudy weather obscures our skies,
And some days darken with drops of rain,
We have but to look in each other's eyes,
And all is balmy and bright again.
Ah! ours is the alchemy that transmutes
The drugs to elixir-the dross to gold,
And so we live on Hesperian fruits,
Sunbeam and I, and never grow old.

Never grow old, but we live in peace,
And love our fellows and envy none,
And our hearts are glad at the large increase

Of plentiful virtues under the sun.

And the days pass on with their thoughtful tread,
And the shadows lengthen toward the west,
But the wane of our young years brings no dread
To break their harvest of quiet rest.

Sunbeam's hair will be streaked with gray,
And time will furrow my darling's brow,
But never can Time's hand steal away
The tender halo that clasps it now.
So we dwell in wonderful opulence,
With nothing to hurt us or upbraid,
And my life trembles with reverence,
And Sunbeam's spirit is not afraid,

FERNS.

In the cool and quiet nooks,
By the side of running brooks;
In the forest's green retreat,
With the branches overhead,
Nestling at the old trees' feet,
Choose we there our mossy bed.

On tall cliffs that woo the breeze,
Where no human footstep presses,
And no eye our beauty sees,

There we wave our maiden tresses.

In the mouths of mountain caves,
Whence the rapid torrent gushes,
Joying in the spray that laves,
As it wildly foaming rushes.

In the clefts of crumbling walls,
On old ruins sad and hoary,
Filling up the ancient halls
With a new and verdant glory.

Where the shady banks are steepest,
Sheltering from the sunlight's glow,
Loving best the shadiest, deepest,
Where the tallest hedge-rows grow.

In the pleasant woodland glades, Where the antlered deer are straying, Lifting there our lofty heads,

There our mimic groves displaying.

Then the treacherous marsh's bosom,
Decking with our regal pride,
There alone allowed to blossom,
(Boon to all our kin denied.)

Though we boast no lovely bloom,
That can rival with the flowers;
Though we fling no sweet perfume;
Though no varied hue is ours-

Yet hath nature framed our race
In a mould so light and fair,
That a beauty and a grace
Shed we round us every where.

-Chambers's Journal.

WITHOUT THE CHILDREN.

OH, the weary, solemn silence
Of a house without the children!
Oh, the strange, oppressive stillness

Where the children come no more l

Ah! the longing of the sleepless
For the soft arms of the children!
Ah! the longing for the faces

Peeping through the opening door-
Faces gone for evermore!

Strange it is to wake at midnight
And not hear the children breathing,
Nothing but the old clock ticking,

Ticking, ticking by the door.
Strange to see the little dresses
Hanging up there all the morning;
And the gaiters-ah! their patter,
We will hear it nevermore
On our mirth-forsaken floor I

What is home without the children? 'Tis the earth without its verdure, And the sky without the sunshine;

Life is withered to the core !
So we'll leave this dreary desert,
And we'll follow the Good Shepherd
To the greener pastures vernal,
Where the lambs have "gone before"
With the Shepherd evermore!

Oh, the weary, solemn silence
Of a house without the children!

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight-

That I may keep at bay
The changeful April sky of chance,
And the strong tide of circumstance-
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine

That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright-

O sweetly-mournful pine!

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook-
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet?
Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.

"BLESSED TO GIVE."

THE kingly sun gives forth his rays; Asks no return; demands no praise;

is one of the most amusing books we have had the good fortune to meet with for a long time. M. du Casse takes up his subject quite ab ovo, for he begins with the mysteries and moralities of the medieval age. The letters-patent granted by the provost of Paris in 1402 to the confrères de la Passion are the first document he mentions, and the brothers Gréban open the long list of dramatic authors. The title Histoire Anecdotique is amply justified by the contents of the two volumes. Leaving to Parfait, to M. Hippolyte Lucas, and to M. Jules Janin, the erudite side of the question, M. du Casse abounds in amusing stories, in parodies, in legends from the green-room, and other details which render his narrative extremely entertaining. In the second chapter we are introduced to comparatively civilized tragedies and comedies, associated with the names of Garnier, Jodelle, and that inexhaustible Hardy whose début on the stage was a tragedy in eight parts of five acts each! The price of admission at the beginning of the seventeenth century was five sous to the pit and ten sous to the boxes; so that, as M. du Casse remarks, the spectators who had the patience to sit through the forty acts of Théagène et Chariclée could scarcely complain of not having enough for their money. Two chapters alone devoted to the Comédie Italienne are scarcely sufficient, for the plays of Boissy, Favart, and Anseaume are particularly characteristic of the manners and customs of French society a hundred and fifty years ago. The voluminous collection of what is called La Théâtre de la Foire might easily have supplied M. du Casse with a large number of interesting extracts; and it is well known that, amongst much that is worse than rubbish, those p plays contain many specimens of true humor and genuine wit.Saturday Review.

LA RELIGIEUSE, Par l'Abbé ***, Auteur du Maudit.

Paria: Lacroix et Cie.

THE new clerical novel, La Religieuse - ascrib

ed, like Le Maudit, first to M. Renan, then to the

Abbé Guettée, and finally to M. Louis Ulbach is

in the strict sense of the word a continuation of

the previous work. The author, whilst attempting to describe the wickedness and absurdity of cloister life, and to explain his views of the way in which reforms ought to be carried out, has introduced

some of the characters with which we are already familiar. The preface deserves notice because it discloses the very natural irritation created amongst the higher clergy by the bold denunciations of a writer who is evidently familiar with the facts he exposes, and to whom the line of Racine may strictly be applied: "Nourri dans le sérail j'en

les détours." To the diatribes of M. Eu

gene Sue and the tirades of Diderot, it might be

answered that they were the result of party spirit

being reserved) will be utterly ineffectual to save society when the hour of peril comes. La Religieuse is beyond a doubt the most remarkable novel of the past month.-Saturday Review.

MÉDITATIONS SUR L' ESSENCE DE LA RELIGION CHRÉTIENNE. Par M. GUIZOT. Paris: Lévy.

THE authority which naturally belongs to every publication bearing M. Guizot's name will no doubt cause many persons to take up his new work; but, independently of this circumstance, the Méditations sur l'Essence de la Religion Chrétienne may be pronounced one of the most striking productions called forth by the present theological crisis. M. Guizot begins by remarking that, however virulent may have been the attacks which from time to time have been directed against Christianity, none have exceeded in gravity that which is going on in our own day. The especial importance of the most recent assaults on the Christian faith results from the position occupied by Christians in the presence

and under the influence of modern civilization. The

development of scientific research, the constant progress of democracy, and the consolidation of political liberty are three facts which imprint upon the age in which we live its distinctive character, and with which Christianity is compelled to deal. In former times, when the spiritual and the temporal elements of society were closely connected, when the church could call upon the state to guarantee its existence and to enforce its decisions, the conditions of the struggle were altogether different, and we may say that they were hardly fair. The church must now accept the chances of the strife on its own responsibility; it must not look beyond its own pale for arguments or for edicts against superstition on the one hand, or infidelity on the other. Hence, according to M. Guizot, it becomes necessary for every section of the Christian community to set aside minor differences, and to join for the purpose of defending the essentials of faith against their busy adversaries. The true Catholics are those, he continues, who see that the principle of authority must not be overstrained; the true Protestants, in their turn, feel that Protestantism does not signify indifference to all positive religion; and the union of these genuine representatives of Christianity will be enough to overrule the undue pretensions of science, the blind hatred of some,

and the carelessness of others. Such is the summary of the ideas contained in M. Guizot's preface. The volume itself, being the first of a series, embraces eight meditations on-1. The Problems of

Natural Religion; 2. Christian Doctrines; 3. The Supernatural Element; 4. The Limits of Science; 5. Revelations; 6. The Inspiration of the Scriptures; 7. God according to the Bible; 8. Jesus Christ as he is exhibited in the Gospels.-Saturday

Review.

THE London Quarterly is rather severe on Reade's Savage Africa, republished here by the Harpers:

"To the two well-known sensation novelists, must now be added a sensation traveler of the same name. The very title of this bulky volume shows its character. The word 'Equatorial' has only a very doubtful right to appear there at all, seeing that the journey was confined to the West Coast, or, rather, to sundry points of the coast between Cape de Verde and the river Congo. As for the 'Gorilla' country, the author did enter it, but